Imperfection in a Red Velvet Dress
by Anna Scathach
Summary: Then there were those Thursday nights in the office when he forgot all about his loving wife. These nights were made of movement, light, crushing power. From that first Thursday she had been like a drug, like the caffeine he needed every morning to go through the usual 5:30 a.m. routine at work. She was imperfection incarnate. Pansy/Draco. Written for LJ Smutty Claus 2012.


**Written for the 2012 Smutty_Claus gift exchange at Livejournal.**

**Gift For:** Thusspakekate  
**Title:** Imperfection in a Red Velvet Dress  
**Author:** lyre_flowers on LJ / Anna Scathach on FFN  
**Pairing:** Pansy/Draco  
**Summary:** Then there were those Thursday nights in the office when he forgot all about his loving wife. These nights were made of movement, light, crushing power. From that first Thursday she had been like a drug, like the caffeine he needed every morning to go through the usual 5:30 a.m. routine at work. She was imperfection incarnate.  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Length:** ~2900  
**Author's notes:** With many thanks to my wonderful beta, I bow deeply to the genius of your prompts, Thusspakekate! They were a marvel to work with; I hope you like the form I have given them. Happy, naughty holidays to everyone!

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**Imperfection in a Red Velvet Dress**

Christmas.

Christmas again. Draco sighed. Inevitably, there were lights, laughter and festive decorations all around. Christmas shopping. Christmas balls.

Like the one at the Ministry. For as long as he could remember, the Ministry had held a Christmas ball. Of course Draco had to attend. It wouldn't do for a famous Senior Officer at the Department of International Magical Cooperation to ignore an official invitation, after all.

Dress robes, sparkle and far too much wine for his colleagues' good usually made for a perfectly dreadful evening. Then there also was the minor annoyance of his wife.

His wife, dear Astoria Greengrass, had seemed like a good match once upon a time. She had been pureblood, pretty, and clever enough to sustain a conversation for longer than five minutes, which had been more than could be said about her older sister, Daphne. And of course Astoria had been rich. Being financially secure had never hurt a witch's chances of getting married. Quite the contrary actually: After the War, the Malfoys had found themselves stripped of a consequent amount of their fortune, not enough to lose the estate, luckily. However, it had certainly been enough to force the young Malfoy heir to take up a job and to restrict their usually liberal spendings somewhat.

And thus, Draco Malfoy had been married to Astoria Greengrass. They had made a perfect match on their wedding day: Both blond, tall, slender, magnificent in white flowing robes, they had made the front page of _Witch Weekly_ as well as of the _Daily Prophe_t. Their parents had been proud.

Rita Skeeter had even gleefully reported on Narcissa Malfoy secretly wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

It had been perfect.

Indeed, they were perfect together. Where he was quick to anger, she was temperate. They were both passionate about Victorian literature. They loved horseback riding. To all their friends and family, Draco and Astoria were the very picture of domestic bliss. They were happy.

But it was too perfect. Draco was not accustomed to getting his way all the time. That perfect smile, her perfect little hands, her studied calm as she kissed him only served to intrigue him more. Surely there must be an aspect of life where they were not perfectly suited?

Surely there must be some discord, some disquiet, some passion. Their kisses were temperate, their touches lukewarm. Yes, she was lovely. All he could have asked for, yet so much more. He had never wanted perfect. Perfect was boring. Perfect was never feeling longing, never feeling urgent want, hate, passion, desire. Draco wanted to long for her, to burn like Fiendfyre.

Perfect was mediocre.

To know that Astoria was the perfect wife and he still could not be sated drove him to despair. Astoria smiled at him, and he went through the motions out of obligation.

Then there were those Thursday nights in the office when he forgot all about his loving wife. These nights were made of movement, light, crushing power. When she had bitten his throat, he had known that this was it. From that first Thursday she had been like a drug, like the caffeine he needed every morning to go through the usual 5:30 a.m. routine at work.

She was imperfection incarnate. She was not aristocratically tall and skinny. Her eyes were a murky brown. Her hair was more often than not a mess from the wind and from her constant running through the office. She wore ridiculously impractical shoes and dresses too tight to be considered decent. When she brought him lunch, she leaned over his desk in a way that could only be seen as provocative. She never smiled at him. She greeted him politely, but in private she liked to vent her frustrations at him. Loudly. In Polish.

Draco did not understand Polish, but that did not really matter. She had enchanted him utterly.

And tonight she was radiant. She wore another of her revealing dresses, her breasts carefully displayed for the lucky onlooker to see. Red velvet clung to her every curve before falling to the floor gracefully, and if at all possible, her shoes were even higher than usual. She was gorgeous.

Astoria gently cleared her throat.

Draco turned. "Yes, darling?"

"Dance with me?" she smiled.

Smiling down at her perfect face, he swept her into his arms. They were lovely as always, he knew from the jealous stares of the surrounding Ministry workers. Their matching forest green robes were of the best quality, and here, in this overcrowded room filled with the usual dimwits, housewives and ageing War veterans, they were special.

It was then, twirling his wife around in a waltz, that he remembered the ridiculous bet his lover had agreed to. She had bet she could get him off during the Christmas ball without his wife noticing. As he was looking forward to a long three-week family holiday in the Swiss Alps, he had enthusiastically agreed.

She was dancing next to him, close yet so far away. She smirked at him over Potter's shoulder. How come that lucky bastard got to hold such a beauty so close? Still looking at him, she rubbed herself against Potter, her whole body, as if she were doing it unconsciously. There was a challenge in her eyes, but Draco wasn't sure what it was. Surely she didn't want him to come kiss her now, in the middle of a crowded ballroom?

Or did she?

She continued to smirk at him, her body still firmly in that bastard's arms. Lucky. Draco knew exactly what her breasts felt like against him. Would the velvet be soft, he wondered, would it be soft and tender and wild like her? It suited her, that colour. It brought out her lips and those brown eyes that he couldn't get enough of. And when she looked him straight in the eye and her red, wanton mouth formed the words-

"I want you."

-he was done for. This was it. It was no longer a silly little game to him. He felt himself starting to become excited. Aroused. Wanting.

Astoria did not stir in his arms. She did not make a move, or a sound. She simply danced, like a porcelain doll meticulously moved along the rhythm. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. Like clockwork.

And then the woman he had been staring at all evening was gone. For that matter, so was Potter. Draco tried to look around inconspicuously, but failed to see any shimmer of red velvet. Where had she gone? Where had ithey/i gone? Was she seriously contemplating Potter? In front of him? At the Ministry Christmas ball, wearing that incendiary dress and shoes that should be declared illegal? Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe this was just her game. Getting him hard for her, painfully hard even, hard enough that he had to keep his wife at a suitable distance, and then leaving?

The game was altogether too easy for her. She was the cat, and he was the innocent mouse, running at high speed towards danger. She teased him relentlessly. After Potter, there was Weasley, then another Weasley—one of the twins—then Theodore Nott. Looking at him over another redhead's shoulder, she deliberately licked her lips; slowly, very slowly.

With their next spin, she was right behind him. He felt her nimble little fingers slipping into his back pocket, leaving something there.

Five minutes later, Draco stood at the bar. She had left him a small piece of paper. As he contemplated the small white square, he took a sip of his drink.

"Pansy," he murmured.

Upon him speaking the word, writing began to appear on the paper he held in his hand. Long, flowing, elegant.

_Meet me in our office at ten. I'll make sure the door is open._

After casting a quick _Tempus_ charm, Draco knew he had another twenty minutes to go before he could head up to his office. Twenty minutes with Astoria. Twenty minutes of waiting, dancing among these people he so despised. Everything for her.

For the next fifteen minutes, she continued to taunt him, playing the game masterfully. To everyone else, she was but a flirty woman who had had too much to drink, but Draco knew her behaviour was wholly intentional. All that rubbing, licking, smirking, smiling, batting her eyelashes at him, turning as if to present her rounded backside, it was deliberate. She was as seductive as she was powerful, and he was but a pawn in her game.

Time ticked away, slowly but surely. To Draco, it seemed as if hours had gone by when he finally heard the gong ring, signalling the hour. Spaces and ages away, he heard Astoria talking to Luna Weasley. He turned on his heel and walked over to the door. Without a single look back into the crowded ballroom, he left.

Three flights of stairs later, he finally was where he wanted to be. His office.

As he silently approached the door, he saw light shimmering inside. He wondered what she would look like. Would she be naked, gloriously naked and spread before him like a feast? Would she be dressed still in that velvet dress and those heels? Would she be wearing lingerie? Stockings? Leather? He did not know, but her unpredictability excited him. One Thursday, she had shown up in fishnet stockings and a tight leather dress. Another week, she had been clad in delicate fairy lace, burgundy, soft and lovely. Sometimes, she wore her work slacks and sweater and day-of-the-week knickers.

When he had reached the door, he knocked. Once. Twice. Upon his third knock, Draco opened the door.

She was a vision. Pansy was still dressed in red, velvet and heels, her short hair still meticulously pinned back to reveal her face. She wasn't perfect. She was far from perfect. Her nose, her teeth, her tiny ears, Draco knew she couldn't be considered perfect. And yet, he wanted her, wanted her passionately.

He simply stood in the doorway, speechless and unmoving. She smiled at him.

It was Pansy who came up to kiss him first. Always her. It turned him on to see that she wanted him so, that she would chase him down and tease him in front of the whole Ministry. Their lips met. There was nothing sweet about their kiss, nothing tender or loving. Their mouths crashed together, tongues mingling, licking, stroking. Their hands grabbed clothes, pulled closer, roughly stroked. Their breaths came in short gasps, her chest heaving against his.

The movement pushed her breasts into Draco's body. He could feel them, plump and heavy beneath the smooth velvet of her dress. He longed to rip it off her, but he didn't. Not yet. There had not been a single word spoken, only lips, tongues, mouths, caressing, stroking, lingering. Her fingers traced a line up his jaw to his ear, playing with the shell, then tugging on his earlobe.

He moaned.

Breaking their kiss, she grinned.

"You like that?" She almost moaned her words into his ear.

Draco could only nod; words failed him.

When her lips replaced her fingers on his earlobe, he moaned again. Her mouth was warm and soft. She sent pleasant sensations to all the right places, and he couldn't help grinding a little into her body. Everything, anything, anything at all to increase the friction, to get their game to the next level. Her tongue was still tracing the shell of his ear, but Pansy suddenly grabbed his arse with both hands and pulled him flush against her. It almost felt as if she were trying to pull him into her, to merge them into one, despite the layers of fabric between them. Her body felt glorious against his, warm and pliant and soft. Just the way he liked it. He ground into her again to show his appreciation.

This time, it was her turn to moan. "Draco."

Hearing her say his name only served to turn him on more. The way she said it—whispering, in a half-moan, drawing out the _a_ until the last syllable grew to be an afterthought—was unique.

"Yes," she moaned. "Yes."

Pansy began moving against him. Friction. Movement. He moved with her, carefully but forcefully thrusting.

"Feels so good," she whispered. "Feels so good to have your body against mine. Hard and warm and perfect. You feel so good."

He kissed her. Hands tangled in clothes, almost languidly opening her dress, he continued thrusting. Red velvet revealed the smooth skin of her back beneath his fingertips. No underwear whatsoever, he ascertained, and pushed the dress down over her hips.

Now dressed in nothing but high heels, she pulled back to look at him. With a flick of her wand, he was as naked as she was. Still looking him into the eye, she tugged on his shoulders.

Stepping closer, he glanced at her body. Rounded belly, breasts that spilled over when he cupped them in his hands and those hips—the sight of her was an entrancing one.

"Oh come on," she sighed impatiently. "Want to feel you now."

Their naked bodies met. Skin on skin, he bent down to kiss her again, but she pulled him with her, further into the office, until she was standing directly in front of his desk. Only then did she allow him to kiss her.

Their hands found naked skin, stroked, pulled, twisted, her hand gliding over his cock with practised ease, his thumb twirling on her left nipple in rapid circles. With his other hand, Draco helped her to sit on his desk, legs spread wide to accommodate his hips between them. Never breaking the kiss, his tongue still licking her lips, he slowly trailed his hand down her belly, over the curves of her waist and hip. Finally his searching fingers found her wet and wanting. She was so wet.

"All for you," she gasped.

The movements of her hand on his cock got progressively quicker, faster and faster, gliding and pulling, while he teased her clit with his fingers. He stroked her, slowly at first, then bolder as her moans showed her mounting pleasure. Her hand was fast now, pumping him earnestly, and he thought that he could come right then and there, on this woman's belly and breasts, like he had done three weeks ago after she had licked and sucked and coaxed his cock into obedience and had finally taken his balls into her hot little mouth.

"Come to me, Draco"

There it was again, the siren's call of her whispering his name. This time, he couldn't resist. When her hand slid from his cock, he quickly replaced his fingers with it.

Pansy's eyes closed in pleasure. He rubbed his cock against her, thrusting a little into her, stimulating her clit, sensing her wetness, until finally he slid into her cunt. He tried his best to keep from moaning as he felt her engulf him, warm and wet.

His cock inside her, he rested his body against hers.

"More," she pleaded, "more."

Tentatively, he started moving, sliding in and out. Her eyes closed in pleasure, she grabbed onto his shoulders and began moving in the same rhythm, grinding, then drawing back. It wasn't tender or particularly gentle—he pushed into her as far as he would go, faster, harder, higher, more, more.

"Oh Merlin, yes. I love to feel you fucking me. Love to feel your cock sliding into me. You're so hard and—oooh—it feels so good, so good, so fucking good. Continue, right there. Harder, yessss. So fucking good."

His movements were growing faster and faster, bodies slapping into each other, flesh on flesh. Her breasts jiggled with each thrust, and her head was thrown back, her hair escaping its narrow bounds. Draco himself had to hold on to the table, for surely Pansy's naked body spread before him on his office table was the hottest thing he'd ever seen: legs spread wide, eagerly welcoming his thrusts, welcoming his cock into her body, rejoicing in it, visibly, vocally, moaning her delight and her arousal.

"Don't you dare stop, ohh, don't stop, so fucking good."

He continued thrusting. So hot, Merlin, so wet, and she was so hot before him, her face, those lips, those breasts, nipples still hard and moving in time with his cock, her hips, her cunt, him moving into her. He could see it, could see the pleasure building higher and higher inside of her.

Then she lifted her legs. High heels now dug into his arse, sharp and pleasurable, and she started moaning again. So good.

"Yes, yes, fuck, Draco. Do you know what it does to me, feeling you above me, seeing you move, feeling you move, hearing your moans, knowing that I'm turning you on?

"I like turning you on, Merlin, I love turning you on, my body for you, lying on your desk for you—do you like fucking me on your desk, huh? So hot—yesss—fuck, that's it, right there, yes—yes—yes, there, Draco-"

He felt her cunt clenching down on him, saw her tremble, her voice, her moans, her saying his name, her heels digging into his arse just a little harder, and her cunt so tight around his cock, so tight and wet. Pleasure climbing, so aroused, so turned on, in her, thrusting. And the friction, and the look in her eyes, and ohh.

"Pansy."


End file.
